Fightstuck
by mistermakara
Summary: "People were always asking me, did I know Dave Strider."   Fight Club AU, not technically a crossover. Dave/John, John/Rose, a bit of Dave/Rose, disregarding canon.
1. Chapter 1

It was a long plane ride., a little more than eight hours at the most. John ate the pre-packaged, bland dinner, feeling the now constant feeling of drowsiness and insomnia. Still, he smiled a buck-toothed grin at the stewardess when she brought him his drink.

Dave sat with his seat tilted back all the way, knocked out. He had had minimal interaction with John thus far, since he had appeared exhausted. However, he managed to rouse when the stewardess came by-he was a relatively light sleeper, and it was such a quiet flight even those in coach could have been heard. Thankfully, almost everyone was resting peacefully.

The seatbelt sign binged and John came back to reality. Where had he gone? He wasn't entirey sure. There were moments in time where he would black out then wake up in an entirely different time and place. All he could remember was wishing for a sort of collision. He looked back down at his tray where the microwaved meal was. Tray was empty and back in it's place. He was back in a new time and place with every bing. Dave watched curiously, propping his seat back up. He took a glance out the window-it was too dark to tell where they were or even if they were even off the ground yet. Airplanes always seemed to be going somewhere, but they certainly took their time with it. He glanced over to exchange looks with the other-in an attempt to get his attention. If he was going to be awake, he might as well make conversation.

John glanced over at the seat next to him where a middle aged woman once sat. Now, there was a young man, about the same age as himself. Blond hair, carelessly combed, dense, reflective sunglasses, lips pulled into a tight line of carelessness, and a smart looking suit. He glanced down at his carry on luggage and smiled. "Hey! We have the same suitcase." John said, perhaps a little too excitedly.

Dave raised a brow, glancing down at the two carry-ons. While they were indeed the same, he knew they carried very different things. He said nothing for a moment, before turning towards him and grinning. "You know why they supply oxygen masks on airplanes?" It was irrelevant to John's previous question, but was perpetually an excellent conversation starter.

John blinked and adjusted his glasses, a bit of a nervous tick. "So we can breathe, right?" He could see his reflection in the sunglasses. A haggard, tired office worker.

He laughed-bitter, harsh. "Oxygen gets you high," he said, leaning forward and searching through the seat pocket. "And when we're in a catastrophic situation, we take deep, panicked breaths." He found the airline information card and opened it, tracing his finger over the calm faces of the illustrations. "So we become euphoric and accept our fate."

John smiled nervously and gave a breathy laugh. "That's a, um, an interesting theory." He looked over the picture of the calm faces of the illustrated family. Two hundred miles per hour towards the water and they were calm. He glanced up at his one serving friend (his reflection stared back). "What do you do for a living?"

"Why?" he asked, his voice flat, though he continued to smirk. "So you can say, 'Oh, /that's/ what you do', and be a smug little shit about it?" There was no malice in his voice-all smiles. He leaned over, and lifted his suitcase. "You have a kind of sick desperation in your voice," he said, brushing the dust and other particles off, then met eyes with John. "Open it."

John looked down at the suitcase. It was so identical to his own boring, black, and business suitcase. Strict. Professional. It wasn't quite something that someone as interesting as his one serving friend would have (maybe something with alligator skin or something). He reached over and settled the suitcase in his lap. He bit his lip and pressed his thumbs to the latches. What if this suitcase is filled with drugs? Illegal ones! Or perhaps he is hiding orphan meat to summon a demon from the depths of hell. Or maybe.

Maybe he was thinking about this too much.

With a quick, simultaneous click, the suitcase springs open and John was greeted with, well, soap. Rows upon rows of neat, indvidually wrapped soap. The multiple scents swirled up into his nostrils creatinga a sort of orgy of vanilla, coconut, lavender.

Soap.

He watched his reaction almost critically, glancing over the rows of bars himself. His pride and glory, devirginized by the eyes of some average joe. "I make and sell soap," he replied flatly, pulling out a business card from one of the pockets, handing it to him. Paper Street Soap Company-Dave Strider. A simple name for a simple profession.

And that was how John met Dave Strider. John took the small business card and scanned through it. No address, just a number and a name. "Do you run the business yourself?" John asked, almost as though it was the oddest thing ever. He stared at this stranger-now-turned-acquaintence but his reflection stared back which unnerved him slightly.

"Yes," he replied, keeping his tone as uninterested as it had been at the very beginning, leaning his seat back slightly. He decided to speak in monosyllables for the time being-for some reason it was entertaining to watch the other press him for questions, in a desperate attempt to make the situation any less awkward. That was the problem with interactions with strangers.

There were two words that came to John's mind as Dave leaned back ever so slightly while he answered unintrestedly. And they were: "so cool". He ran a soap business all by himself and made the soap too! And from what he can sense from the clusterfuck of odors on his lap, they must be pretty quality! Slowly, a bucktoothed grin was born upon his face (what is this foreign thing? Smiling?) and John attempted to copy Dave and lean back slightly. However, the seat went too far back. After a minute or two of readjusting, John cleared his throat and smiled again (there it is again!).

"Dave... I think you are the most interesting single-serving friend I've ever met. And I only know two things about you! Your name and your business. Hm." He glanced back down at the colorful array of soaps on his lap. He snorted amusedly. "Soap. That's pretty interesting." He mumbled, almost sarcastically.

He arched a brow, folding his arms, the seams of the leather jacket he was wearing creasing with every movement. "Single-serving friend?" he asked, unsure what exactly he meant by that. This was obviously a fellow with a lot on his mind, who did a pathetic job at hiding it-that smile made him cringe vaguely, though there was something charming to it.

John smiled a little wider. Now's his chance to seem witty and interesting! He glanced back down the aisle and leaned in closer towards Dave. He was one hand cupped to his mouth and giggling away from being a little girl sharing a secret. "You know when you travel and stuff and everything's in these little, self-contained packages? A single-serving of coffee with a single-serving of cream and suger. And when you sit next to a stranger in an airplane, they're your friend until you land. And then-" John paused and cringed slightly. Fuck. He's babbling. He stops there, leaving the sentence unfinished and hanging like fresh pasta and leaned back in his chair again.

"I get it. The spork. All very clever." He offered a smirk, but nothing more. Dave didn't actually mind the fact the other wanted to make conversation-it was much better than sitting around in silence the whole time. "Don't quit your day job," he added, simply as a light poke. He closed the suitcase, kicking it under the seat again, knowing the soaps would be fine.

John tried not to blush. Welp, at least he had his moment. He pulled the seat back upright and sighed, just a bit defeated. "Yeah, well, not like I can." He mumbled to himself. His father owned this big toy company for kids and his lonely job was to check the safety and "child friendliness" of the toy before and after production. Especially when there's a complaint, several of them. He will then have to determine if the toy will be need to be recalled. John likes to think the shitty job was his father's way of gaining Prankster's Gambit. Maybe. Hopefully. Dave sat there in silence a moment, finding himself getting bored with John already. A plain businessman with some sort of sense of humor-he was certain there were people just like him that he saw every day. He pushed up his sunglasses, glancing out the window only to see nothing, of course.

John risked a glance back at Dave only to see him staring out the window. John leaned forward a bit and saw the glittering lights of a city below them. He glanced above and saw the sole brightness of a few stars. A thought came to him. And in order to make for more conversation, he said it. "You know... We create these big cities with glittering lights and such. And if you didn't know up from down, you'd think that the lights were stars... Like we're trying to copy the universe."

"I suppose," he replied, hugging his arms to his chest-overcome by a sudden cold. "But down below it's just as insignificant." In his eyes, everyone was simply a fragment, a useless bit of data only made to fulfill a single purpose. "In the long run, who we are, what we are, doesn't really matter, does it?"

John shrugged. "I guess..." There wasn't much to say on Dave's little question because in all honesty, John didn't really think much of other people around him to begin with. Call him selfish, but hey John's a busy guy. Work work work and insomnia rampant. "I just know that I'm me and I'm living the life I'm living." John shrugged again and leaned back in his chair, getting out of Dave's personal space bubble.

"And that's good enough," he replied, exhaling softly at the sense of more space-though he was only aware the other was anywhere near him until he pulled back. Oh, for fuck's sake, he thought-he was another one of those ridiculous guys, who wanted a grip on everything around him. For everything to be in control. Just like everyone else.

Overhead, the bored voice of the pilot signals the beginnings of landing. John sighed and adjusted his glasses again. Well, he's home. He buckles himself in and prepares for the shaky landing. He turns to Dave and smiles again, he wasn't beaming this time. It was just a little melancholy. "Well, it was nice having you as a single-serving friend, Strider."

"Yes, a pleasure," he replied flatly, already picking up his suitcase and setting in his lap, pretty much desperate to be out as soon as possible. What a pathetic ass, he thought to himself. He'd probably even call him up sometime, just for a laugh. He probably didn't even have anyone else to go to-and so he mulled on this for a while, until the plane landed.


	2. Chapter 2

Vibrating luggage. John honestly couldn't believe there was a policy for that. He pulled his glasses off and massaged at his temples, mumbling the address to the taxi driver. All of his stuff was in there and it /vibrated/. Fuck. The taxi cab stopped and he stepped out, wondering if the day could get any worse. He looked up at his condo.

He was wrong.

8th floor, ten doors down. Fire. A raging flame consuming all of his stuff. On the ground before him were charred and exploded remains of his catalog furniture. How embarassing. A full, two door stainless steel fridge and nothing but condiments inside. John wandered in further towards the chaos of firetrucks and policemen and into the building. He stared at the elevator. A voice, that belonged to the Doorman he's seen every day but never talked to, comes up.

"You're not allowed to come in, sir," the man said-he was skinny and aging, but firm in his tone. He pitied the man, but in a detached sense-these things happened, and made for interesting stories, but that was it. Even he knew that. "By order of the fire marshal. Do you have anywhere to stay?"

John didn't look at the doorman and turned around, walking back out at the carnage. Something catches his eye, a single purple slip of paper with elegant writing. "Rose" and a number. He reached out and picked up the Ghostbuster magnet and slip of paper. He sighs and wanders into the payphone. John picks up the reciever, everything sounding loud and clattering as he slides the quarter into the payphone.

The doorman paused a minute, looking him over. He didn't know John, but always picked him out as a troubled person from the second he walked through the door, one that needed help somehow, but there wasn't any obvious means of offering it. "A lot of young people," he said quietly, though audible enough to be heard in the phone book, "don't know what they really want. Young people, they think they want the whole world. If you don't know what you want-" and he stepped back slightly, heading in the opposite direction, "you could end up with a lot you don't."

John stared at the slip of paper in his hands, barely listening to the doorman. He furrowed his eyebrows and turned toward the direction the doorman's voice came from, only to find him walking away already. John sighed and stared back down at the slip of paper. Shaking his head, he shoved the paper into his pocket and pulls out an address book, flipping through it. Acting almost like a bookmark, a single, plain business card sat between blank pages. The name stares at him in the face and John's overbite bit down on his lower lip. Slowly, with not-so-steady fingers, he dials the number in. It rang for what must have felt like an eternity-Dave never answered his phone. He'd gotten good at isolating himself from other people, and then surprising them with the chance of an actual reaction; it added to his mystique. Though, after a moment, the phone in the booth several miles away rang, the line quiet except for the sound of his own breath.

The tell-tale "click" of someone picking up wasn't his imagination, right? John listened hard, pressing his ear hard into the receiver. Breathing. Very quiet breathing as if an assassin was on the line. John took a deep breath, cradling the receiver in both hands. "... Hello? Dave?"

"Who's this?" There was a sneer in his tone-not blatant, but still there. It was the tone of a rather exhausted person, one that had been through a relatively rough flight-with a smirk, he thought of the man he'd met on the plane hours before. The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it yet. John opened and closed his mouth, much like a gaping fish. He forced on a smile, even though he knew Dave can't see him, and let out a breathy laugh.

"It's, um... We met on the plane, remember? John? I'm not sure if I formally introduced myself." He mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck which felt chilled all of the sudden. "We had the same briefcase?"

"The funny guy." Dave rolled his eyes, thankful the other couldn't see-he was playing genuine. "What's up?" He twisted the cord of the phone between his fingers, and the rattling was audible; it would become obvious, if John was listening carefully enough, that he wasn't in quite of a jovial mood as he was putting on. He at least liked throwing out the hint.

John swallowed audibly and forced out a slight laugh. Rattling. What was that? Does Dave have kids? John nearly made his palm and his face intimately meet at that notion. Dave didn't seem like the guy to be tied down by those things! He cleared his throat and said: "Well... It's kind of a funny story. Heh..."


	3. Chapter 3

In less than an hour, the both of them sat in the back of a bar in one of the dingier parts of town, having ordered a pitcher of beer and were getting to work on a second. John had explained the ordeal for the most part. Dave couldn't help but pity the guy-he'd spent all his time completely missing the point. The fact the apartment burned down, in his eyes, was an awakening for him; a good opportunity to start fresh. It was quiet for a moment, it being John's turn to speak-their conversation had been oddly divided, not like the rambling he was used to.

With the pleasant, warm buzz from the beer, John felt much more comfortable talking to the seemingly untouchable Dave Strider. Even with the ever so tragic loss of his material belongings he had a small, sad smile. He hiccuped and smiled sadly as he brought the glass to his mouth. "You know... You just buy all this nice furniture and say: "This is my couch. After this, I don't need any more. I have the issue delt with." And then you get he shiny porcelain plates, fancy glass cups..." He twirled his finger in the air, carving the hand blown patterns of his vase full of fake flowers.

Dave nodded, polishing off another glass. "Could be worse," he mumbled, relatively stable for someone on his second pitcher of beer. "A woman could cut off your penis and toss it out of a moving car." He laughed slightly, the joke only really making sense to himself in that state. "But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe this is some huge tragedy. I mean, you did lose a lot of nice, neat little shit. The trendy paper lamps, the Euro-trash shelving unit, am I right? But maybe, just maybe, you've been delivered."

John cringed and laughed nervously. "Well, yeah. There's that, I guess." John stared down at his half full glass. He shrugged and downed it in much the same manner as Dave. For some reason, all he could think of was Rose standing over him with a dagger aimed straight at his groin. No sleeping for him tonight.

"But you know what," he said, pointing almost drunkenly, though in the moment it seemed perfectly serious. His eyes drifted up to John's, his mind obviously on something else, and he rolled his eyes. "I say fuck perfection. I say never be complete. Stop being perfect. Why don't we all just evolve?"

"Perfection..." John said the word slowly, enunciating it as if tasting the word. "Isn't that what we're... trying to evolve to?" John looked over at Dave, tilting his head like those horribly adorable puppies you see in pet stores. "I mean. Natural selection and what not is building up to that... right?"

Dave rolled his eyes, pouring himself another drink, thinking over his statements carefully-in spite of that, everything came out in a blur. "We're consumers, that's what," he replied. "We're the biproducts of a lifestyle obsession. Crime, poverty, murder-those things, those things don't concern us. What concerns us are celebrity magazines, television with five-hundred channels. And now I say fuck that. We have to keep moving forward, get unstuck. You know what I mean?"

Another drink, a sip, and words spilled out of John's mouth. They came out in a slur and John wasn't entirely aware of what he was saying or why it mattered. "Yeah... Yeah, you're right. I was so drawn into these dumb furniture magazines and what Nic Cage was doing and and which movies were coming out and who was in them and who was making them..." John snorted and took another chug. "I.. am stuck. Between pages of shiny magazine paper..." He blinked at Dave as if this revelation was somethign euphoric. "I need to get unstuck, Dave."

"Damn right you do," he replied, paying the bill once the waitress came by, pouring them both what was left of the last pitcher, a bit clumsily-some hit the table and the sleeve of his leather jacket. "The question is how." He picked up his glass and polished it off in a few moments, licking his lips and hiccuping slightly.

John swallowed thickly and picked up his glass to gulp it down. "Well..." John wandered his eyes around the bar. It was mostly empty without the exception of a few hobos and half-dead alcoholics. He checked his watch. 2:48? Damn. John chugged down the rest of his beer and stood, a bit wobbly on his feet. "I-I dunno, Dave. But it's kinda late, I should go find a hotel or someting." He shoved his hand into his pocket to find any cash he can spare for a taxi cab.

"A hotel." He laughed, harsh. "So you called me up at midnight just to have some drinks, is that all?" Dave stood up as well, sticking his hands in his pockets to balance himself-he was pretty shaky, but good at hiding it. He began to make his way outside, gesturing for John to follow him. "Come on, man, you can just ask me."

John stood there for a good fifteen seconds before stumbling after Dave. He smiled, a bit goofily. "Well, uh..." A slight laugh and hands being shoved into pockets again. "Ask you what, exactly?" In he back of his fuzzy brain, he knows what Dave's talking about. But really, Dave Strider didn't need an office man down on his luck in his hands, right?

"Cut the foreplay already and ask me," he replied, his annoyance showing in his tone but nowhere else. "You know what I'm talking about." Once outside, he zipped up his jacket, the collar sticking up slightly. "I don't have a problem with you staying, so just ask me."

John wasn't sure if it was the alcohol making his cheeks heat up or what. John shivered in his suit jacket and bit his lip. John looked up at Dave, tilting his head again. "Can I... stay at your place? If that's not a problem." He quickly added, his words slowly becoming clearer.

"Yes, yes you can," he replied, adjusting the collar of his jacket clumsily, only to have it stick up more. He noticed John's vague blush and rolled his eyes; he was on his third pitcher of beer and he couldn't bring himself to ask if he could stay. A hell of a guy. "But I need you to do me a favor," he said, pacing so he faced John directly, and looked him in the eye. "I want you to hit me as hard as you can."


	4. Chapter 4

What. John stared blankly at Dave as if he grew an extra head. Suddenly, he didn't feel quite so fuzzy. He swallowed thickly and glanced around the empty parking lot. "Um... Dave? I don't know about this." He rubbed his neck and looked back up into his own, wary reflection on Dave's sunglasses.

"Oh, come on," he said, moving backwards with a little bit of bounce in his step. "How much can you know about yourself if you haven't been in a fight?" He pushed up his sunglasses absentmindedly, packing a bit. "Just hit me now before I lose my nerve." There was a sickness in his grin, one that John probably hadn't seen before; those were his true colors.

"This is crazy." John muttered more to himself than to Dave. John's never been a fight, well, except once in high school when some kid provoked him and the only thing he had to protect himself was a mallet (he can still remember the shock that ran up his arm and the overly loud crack of the kid's hand). But that was once for self-defense. This was something else. That smile that Dave was giving him... Something about it triggered something in John's head and he slowly brought his white-knuckled fists up. Buck teeth worried at his bottom lip. "W-Where do you want it? In the face?"

"Wherever, man, just make it count." He grinned wider at how he'd nervously raised his fists, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. Dave hadn't been in many fights himself, though his exterior would say otherwise. They just weren't necessary half the time, except for now.

Blue eyes darted from Dave's face to his torso, to his arm. Where should he strike? His fists were shaking with potential energy now. A nagging in his mind whispering: "Do it. Do it now. He's waiting". John took in a deep, shaky breath and swung his fist, making contact right under Dave's jawbone with a dull sound. John stepped back. "Oh fuck, that didn't count..." Too weak. Too weak.

Dave stumbled backwards, clutching where he'd been hit with one hand and rubbing at it slightly, cursing loudly. He turned after a moment of collecting himself, that same smile plastered to his face. "Fuck yes it counted," he hissed, and took a bounding step forward, landing a punch in John's stomach.

With an "ooph", John stumbled back and landed hard onto the ground. His palms were stinging and it felt odd to breathe. John gasped for breath and stared up at Dave who was smiling that same smile. And again, the trigger occured. He jumped up onto his feet, landing a little wobbly.

He faced him, his smile toning down into a smirk, his eyes glinting behind the shades. "How do you feel?" he asked through a sneer, his fists cocked.

"Strange." John mumbled, bringing his fists back up. There wasn't much to say on how John was feeling. Just... Strange. The smile was gone but it's effect lingered.

"But a good kind of strange." Dave nodded, dropping his fists for a moment to look down at him. "We've crossed the threshhold. You wanna call it off?" The bounce in his step had died, his smile faded-he was almost serious now, with the exception of his smirk.

Well, here he was. The point of no return. Fight and get a black eye and a few bruises and scrapes. Or retreat and go back to his old life. He would continue working, go to those meetings, possibly get married, have kids, the house, the white picket fence. And then, there was Dave. John swallowed thickly. The point of no return... John swings another punch at Dave, falling just short under his ear.

"Motherfucker," he hissed, managing to throw a punch at that pretty little face in return. Dave had completely disregarded the facade he'd been putting up before-it was a subtle one, but it made him look somewhat sane, at the least. He cracked another grin, staring down at him. His shades had been pushed slightly down his nose, red eyes glinting in the dim light.

John was smiling agan. It was a wide, toothy grin that made him bite his lower lip harshly when the punch landed. A line of blood and drool fell from his lip and he smiled again, teeth stained red. Red as those eyes. John faltered in a kick when he caught a glimpse of the ever elusive eyes. Such an unusual color... The skewed shades reminded John of the crookedness of his own glasses. He didn't bother to fix them and threw that kick that was waiting.

After gathering himself from the kick, Dave tore the shades off, letting them fall on the sidewalk-he glanced backwards, knowing they were safe for the time being. His eyes were wide, almost Bambi-like-it ruined his look, made him look just like an ornery kid. He threw another punch to the other side of his cheek, mainly focusing on the face for now; he was intent on ruining him for the time being.

The punch sent his glasses flying. Blue eyes were wide and unnervingly bright when he stared up at Dave. He was hunched over, blood painted his bottom lip a pretty red now and his breath was coming in fast. Fists clenched and he threw a punch into Dave's torso. He wanted to make the seemingly untouchable Dave fall. Be powerful. Just for once.

He let him, falling back onto the asphalt and clutching his stomach, not moving-he'd learned to stay there until he gathered his breath. Dave was cursing fluently now, though, wasting any opportunty to catch it again. He'd lost, and he'd had the poor little businessman win-there must be some sort of psychological padding to that, something that increased his confidence or changed his worldview or whatever those little parking-lot victories tended to do.

In. Out. He breathed heavily, fist in the air. Shaking. Adrenaline coursing through his veins. He swallowed a thick glob of spit and blood and his entire body relaxed. His hands swayed back to his sides and his back slouched. Blue met red as he stared into Dave's eyes. He had won. He let out a long, drawn out breath, almost a laugh, and collapsed onto the asphalt.

Dave laughed harshly, turning to John to grin at him in that same way. "Not half bad," he said, stretching out, his hands behind his head in a completely relaxed position; as if he wasn't feeling any pain at all, he was an immortal being. He was somewhat happy for John, in a way, happy he'd won-he looked like the kind of guy who'd never come across much success in his time.

It took a moment to sink it. And when it did, John grinned, threw his head back, and laughed. It was almost too good to be true and John felt amazing. He sprawled on the concrete, laughter subsiding, and being replaced with a blissful smile. "T-Thanks." He stuttered before licking his teeth clean.

"Any time," he replied, crossing his ankles and staring up at the sky. He took in the silence, completely blissfull in spite of the throbbing pain on the side of his face. "Say, if you could fight anybody, whoever you wanted, one on one, who would it be?" It was a spontaneous question, the first thing that came to mind; he felt like John was okay enough for him to drop them on him. After all, he would be staying at his house for a while, until the ordeal with the condo was settled.

Well, that was one John had to think about. The first answer that came to mind was Dave. Dave Strider. John would happily fight him again. He snorted to himself. "Maybe my boss... Who would you fight?" He turned onto his side to look at Dave.

"My dad, no question." He studied John's face carefully, and his smile broadened when he noticed the marks on his face. He'd packed a punch, something he always knew was in him but he'd never quite acted on.

"You poor thing," he replied, snickering in return-it was equally hilarious to him. "That makes you the heir, at least. Always some perks to that." His gaze was glassy, focused on nothing but the stars, seeing how John was facing away from him. "My dad never went to college, so it was important that I did. And after I graduated, I called him long distance and said 'Now what?' He said, 'Get a job.'" He was rambling now, gesturing vaguely. "When I turned twenty-five, I called him again, and said 'Now what?' and he said, 'I don't know. Get married.'" He lit a cigarette, letting it hang between his lips lazily. "A generation of men raised by women. You know-" and he sat up, to face John, glancing down at him, "I'm starting to think another woman isn't really what we need."

Rose immediately came to mind. With her expensive cigarettes, sultry lilac eyes, and stiff shoulders. He sat up and leaned on his hands, laughing nervously. He reached a hand up to his face to survey the damage. When his fingers passed over te bleeding lip, he grinned. He glanced at Dave, accidentally meeting his eyes again. He pressed his tongue to the cut and smiles wider. "We should do this again sometime..."

He laughed, cracking another smile and glancing up at him before sitting up, rubbing at below his ear. "It's three A.M.," he mumbled, standing up and offering a hand to the other. "Figure it's time to get going, huh? Unless you wanna go again." He winced and rubbed at his temple, giving him an expression that read: "You kicked my ass. I sure don't."

John chuckled and took Dave's hand, pulling himself up to a standing position. "Nah." He said, brushing off the pebbles and asphalt off of himself. "I think you suffered too much at the hands of John Egbert!" He gently bumped his fist against Dave's shoulder, snickering and snorting.

He rolled his eyes, walking backwards a few steps before turning and making his way out of the parking lot. "It's kind of a walk," he called from behind, going through a few puddles. Dave stuck his hands in his pockets again, mumbling to himself-something about Paper Street. Traffic stacked up through the place during the day, but at night, there was nothing for a mile in every direction.

John jumped slightly and trotted after Dave. "Well, I don't mind. Walking's good for you, right?" He licked his bleeding lip again and pulled his glasses back on, blinking at the sudden clarity of the world. The world that was cold and unforgiving apparently. John shivered and shoved his hands into his pants pockets.

He left his shades behind. That was a symbol, all right-that he had dropped his act. Dave was John's ally now, not a stranger whose ass he'd kicked. Hands burying deep in his pockets and balling into fists, he grunted in the affirmative, revelling in the change in the look in the other's eyes. He'd seen the real world, all right.

As Dave had said, it was quite a walk, and John couldn't quite find a conversation topic. He was still buzzing from left over adrenaline and all he could do was grin goofily and glance at Dave every now and then. It was... odd. Seeing Dave without his glasses. He looked mortal. Even with he constant poker face he kept. Still, as strange as it was, it was a welcome change. Dave was a good looking man (in a very heterosexual way) and those red eyes were quite nice to look at. John almost felt inadequate, yet, he had kicked his ass. And that was something to be proud of.

Eventually they reached the place-a grand old three story, obviously dilapidated and even worse on the inside. He kicked the door open-there wasn't a lock, from when the police or whoever had broken the door open. "Casa de Strider," he said, holding the door open, already glancing up at the staircase. Looked like the power was out again.

The house, if it could be called that, looked as if it was waiting to be torn down. Windows were boarded up, he stairs looked about ready to collapse, and there was barely electricity. John glanced back at the driveway. "Hey... what happened to your car?" He asked, suddenly remembering that red sportscar Dave had commandeered from the airport.

"What car?" He smirked, pulling a flashlight out of his pocket. He made his way up the stairs, ignoring it when he almost slipped, and disappeared promptly, flicking on the dim, fly-spotted lights down below.

He wasn't sure if Dave actually owned the place or was squatting. Either way, as John followed Dave up the stairs, he wouldn't be surprised. During his ascent, he tripped and slipped more times than he'd like to admit. "Augh!" He cried out when he slipped and knocked his temple against the banister.

Dave appeared at the top of the stairs, frowning, though the look in his eyes was amused. "You all right?" he asked, grimacing when he realized that spot must have still been pretty sensitive from earlier. In spite of the outcome, he'd packed a punch, and that was good enough.

John laughed it away and continued ascending. "I'm fine! I'm fine!" He stood at Dave's side, grinning that goofy smile. He glanced down at the dim hallway in front of them. "So, where will I be sleeping?" There seemed to be plenty of rooms but John was concerned about the cleanliness of the room and one with a bed (he tried not to think about the possibility of sleeping in the same bed as Dave. In a hetero way).

"They're all shit, but-" He guided him down the hall, finding the one across from his own room and kicking open the door. It was relatively dank, but the best compared to the others-it was outfitted with a mattress and nightstand, and that was it. "That's you," he said, and pointed over to his own with his thumb, "and that's me. Door's always open if you need it.

Well, it wasn't as bad as he was expecting. John walked into the room and looked around at the cracked, bare walls. "Well, isn't this cozy." He snorted and ploped down onto the creaky, saggy mattress. He brought a hand to his throbbing temple and drew in a sharp breath when he came in contact with it. Oh yeah, that's gonna bruise. He pulled off his glasses, setting them on the nightstand, and looked up at Dave. "Thanks, Dave. For the room." He grinned.

"Not a problem," Dave replied, and headed off to his own room, flicking off the lights in the hall. It hardly made a difference when he headed off to his room, the door still open, and began to disrobe. He was staring out at the window, at the empty mile that slowly built up into a city. John was the last thing on his mind then-as if he was used to having almost strangers staying over at his place. Clad in boxers, he slipped into his own bed, out cold without a moment to spare. John snickered and stood to undo the tie and unbutton his stiff business shirt. Everything went better than expecte-oh Dave's half naked in his room with the door open. John blushed and quickly shut his own door closed. Well, he's back to feeling inadequate. Just a little (a lot). John sighed, running a hand through his hair. Quickly, so that his mind won't wander, he stripped off the remainder of his clothes and flopped onto the bed that let out a mighty chorus of squeaks. John stared at the ceiling for at least ten minutes before knocking out. Sleep time.


	5. Chapter 5

The basement was dank, empty thus far except for a handful of men all packed together, mumbling to themselves. Wearing a new set of sunglasses, Dave stepped out and they skittered into a circle, the man taking the center, arms folded across his chest. Some's faces were already covered in bruises from the previous week, some were fresh.

"Gentlemen," he began, adjusting his shades and smiling, "welcome to fight club." He began to pace slightly as he spoke, in not quite a yell but close-"The first rule of fight club is that you do not talk about fight club. The second rule of fight club is that you /do not/ talk about fight club..."

He spat out the rest of the rules, before backing away into the corner of the ring. Dave was almost always the first to take on a guy, and half the time no one was willing.

There was an awkward silence, and Dave sighed. "Pathetic. Come on, already, somebody take me on." For a minute his eyes wandered, seeking out potential fights. There was only one person who would do, and he knew it.

John stood in his own secluded corner and watched Dave give out the daily rules to the new guys. It was something of an experience watching Dave. Shirtless, a dark pair of pants, and shades concealed his face again. He was immortal. He was not their friend. John felt a special sort of privilege about that.

Another privilege, would have to be fighting Dave.

John stepped into the ring, seemingly innocent with shuffling feet and hands behind his back. He tilted his head up at Dave and smiled. It wasn't a goofy, buck-toothed smile. It crawled. Slowly. Showing a slimmer of potential danger. He carefully slid his glasses off his face, folded them, and set them aside. Off came his shirt then. He smiled again at Dave and got into position.

He ignored the looks from the club members.

"Excellent." Dave met his eyes with a smirk. He took a few bounding steps backwards, already cocking his fists. He never took his shades off during fight club; only when John was around. That was his sign of respect. His only manner of showing that John was different.

Under his breath, he asked: "Are you ready?" Ready for what, he wondered? Ready to let John kick his ass again, or ready to have it handed to him? It was up to the other, really. It always had been.

With a shattering chorus of knuckles cracking. John smiled wider, just a little crooked. He stood still in position then-the only warning being a slight nod-charged at Dave. He threw a hard punch aimed right at Dave's left temple.

He'd gotten better at this, he mused as he charged, and after that all coherent thought was cut off. While he winced and took the blow, he was still able to grab hold of John's shoulder, delivering a punch under his chin.

John's back collided with the floor, knocking the air out of him. He gasped sharply which was quickly followed by a cough or two. Quickly, he recovered, firmly setting his hands onto the floor, and swiped a kick at Dave's feet.

He managed to stumble to the floor, landing on his hands, almost in a catlike position, muscles rippling. His frame was actually quite thin, but wiry, gradually padded with muscle week after week. Without a moment to think, he pounced on top of John, grabbing hold of his shoulder with one hand and delivering several punches across his face with the other.

Thin, calloused hands scrambled for purchase. He clawed and punched at the body on top of him before managing to kick to Dave's side and kicking him off. He scrambled away and quickly got up. If he was going to go down, it wasn't going to be so soon. John wasn't much to look at, really. He was stocky and awkwardly proportioned with too broad shoulders. John charged again and aimed to punch at Dave's face again, only to slip on sweat and blood.

He managed to catch him from under the arms loosely, lifting one hand quickly to punch him across the face again, managing to knock him to the ground. He was snickering now, breaking off into full laughter as he stood above him-he was deliberately making himself vulnerable, giving John the opportunity to throw at least one punch before he took him down for real.

John gasped and swallowed thickly and pressed his hands onto his face, even if it hurt to do so. He breathed heavily and looked up at Dave with fierce eyes. He knew this game. He knew it well.

He clenched his teeth and hopped back onto his feet. With a battle cry, he charged again, and slammed his head onto Dave's forehead.

Taken by surprise, Dave stumbled backwards, letting out a loud cry of "Fuck!"

His back slammed against the wooden wall, hearing the creak and feeling at least one splinter going into his back. (The basement was absolute shit-when fights got as rough as this it was bound to happen.) He delivered a punch to John's stomach now that he was close, though, hoping for the best.

If he continued getting the breath knocked out of him, he's honestly afraid that one of these days his lungs are gonna fall out. John coughed and doubled over, feeling fatigue and his muscles scream. His legs buckled from underneath him and he found himself kneeling.

His head throbbing, Dave squatted down across from him, hands on his knees with a smirk, lowering his shades slightly for his sake. "You want to call it off, Egbert?" There was an odd sincerity in his tone, one that contrasted the malice that he usually put on during fight club. No one could hear it.

John scowled and bumped his head against Dave's again. He breathed in deeply through his teeth at the pain but knowing it's causing Dave pain as well was worth it. He looked up into red eyes and snorted. "Only because you asked so nicely." He bumped his head against Dave one more time for good measure. "Now help me up, cool guy."

Dave grimaced at the bumping, almost whimpering, but catching himself. (That would just be gay, considering the status he'd built up already.) He stood up, offering his hand and pushing his shades back up with a smirk. "And to think you were such a nice guy a couple weeks ago," he mumbled.

John grabbed his hand and pulled himself up, laughing. "Well, a lot of things happened in two weeks..." He said, grinning goofily once again. After every fight, it's like someone had hit the reset button, and John was back to being his regular self. Well, not enitrely regular. John looked down at the hand he was still holding and pulled it away quickly, laughing still. He smiled and shuffled back to his spot, picking up his glasses along the way.


	6. Chapter 6

The phone rang that afternoon, while John was out of the house. Dave had spent most of the afternoon in bed, occasionally staring at his reflection and generally waiting for something to happen-and as soon as he heard it in the hall, it was as if he was being rescued. With almost a bounce in his step, he picked it up, dangling it between two fingers. "Yes?" The line was oddly silent.

She was feeling so drowsy. She hung upside down in her chair, short, blond hair tickling the carpet. She breathed slow and long as if exhaling smoke in her lungs. "Do you want to hear me describe how death feels?" She breathes in. "Do you want to listen and see if my spirit can speak through the speaker?" Rose closes her eyes and allows her head to rest fully on the floor. Inhale. "I'll tell you when my soul is leaving me..."

Dave furrowed a brow, leaning against the wall with the reciever pressed against his ear. "What?" was his simple reply. He wasn't much for poetry, after all, and he didn't even know who this was. He had a feeling it was an acquaintance of John; God knew he had some sort of dark past, and it probably involved some sort of woman. He was right after all.

"What?" Rose repeated. She slowly allowed her body to fall off of the chair with a loud "thump". She giggled. "I told you. I'm falling asleep. Forever." She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling fan. "All that Xanax will make me sleep." She sighed, almost content.

He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, smirking in spite of himself. He could picture this woman, probably another fucked-up blonde, tossing herself aroundsome crappy apartment like a dream. It must happen every day. "How much did you take?"

"What was left of the bottle." She stated as if she was only describing how many cookies she ate. She laughed again before reverting back into her serious, monotone speech. "This isn't suicide, do not worry your little, insomniac head. More like... those cry-for-help type of situations where you save me from this hole I have dug myself." She cradles the receiver with both hands. "Should I tell you when I am facing Death?"

It was only then he noticed the slip of paper on top of the phone-"Rose Lalonde", with her number and address at the bottom. Rolling his eyes, he hung up, making his way out of the house and arriving within short time at apartment 8-G. Dave stood there, a wry smile on his lips as he stood in front of the door, reaching up to knock.

Rose opened the door and grabed him by his jacket. She pulled him inside quickly and shuts the door, hazy, lilac eyes looked him over. "You were in quite a hurry to arrive here..." She stumbled and fell onto the corner of the bed; her hands scrambled for purchase but ended up taking everything on the bed with her in her descent towards the floor. Plastic crinkled and shifted.

She looke up at Dave, pupils dilated. "Mattresses are sealed in the plastic to prevent bed bugs and other such parasites and diseases." She mumbled. Rose laid on her side, still looking up at Dave. "Did I call you...?"

Dave said nothing, studying the place quietly, his hands behind his back. He never liked dealing with nutcases, and she was an A-class one. Yet something about her was alluring, and that was good enough to make him stay. His eyes wandered around the room, catching sight of a dildo, made out of the same plastic as Barbie dolls, and for a moment he thought about how they all came from the same place. Classy.

Rose stared at him and followed his line of sight to the dildo. Oh, it was her trusty Alyssa the Magnificent. "Do not worry. Alyssa is not a threat to you." She said with a blank face. Suddenly, sirens and the screech of tires made Rose sit up straight. "Oh dear, it appears someone had called the cops..." She stumbles up onto her feet and grabs him by the jacket to pull him out.

With a flurry of hands in pockets and curses, Rose managed to lock her door. "Come on." She grabbed him by the jacket again and dragged him towards the staircase where a crowd of cops, paramedics, and a firefighter climb up the stairs.

Dave followed willingly, cringing at the calls from the officers at the door-"Miss Lalonde, please come out, you have every reason to live"-but shrugged it off, staying a few steps ahead of her in order to make sure she didn't fall over. The effects of the overdose were definitely settling in, and the last thing he wanted was a cadaver on his hands-though that was a likely possibility now.

Rose stepped back and turned to the cops and the other such figures of authority. "You know, the girl who lived there was such a lovely, sophisticated girl. She lost faith in herself!" She slowly began to descend down the stairs. "She has become a monster! A parasite of disbelief and the seduction of the Dark Arts has her now! She is the Devil's Mistress now! Good luck trying to save her from the throes of sinful passion!" She stumbled once or twice during her tirade; but was luckily saved by Dave or the banister.

Within half an hour, the both of them were in the kitchen-thankfully, John was out cold upstairs. Rose had seemed to have disappeared for a moment, out of his line of sight, though he could sense her presence. Leering, in her drugged-out state.

Rose leaned against the counter as she mumbled something to herself. All that Xanax... She looked up at Dave sitting at the table. He had his sunglasses on and she couldn't tell if he was spacing out or not. Not that it mattered to Rose, anyway.

She sauntered over (more like stumbled) to the table and slammed her hands down onto it. She leaned over, the loose v-neck of her dress hanging low and allowing Dave a peek of pale cleavage. "With all this Xanax through my system I can die if I sleep... The best ways to do get rid of it is to pump my stomach or..." She leaned forward more and pressed her cheek the faux wood table. Drugged eyes sized up Dave from her position again. "I could sweat it out." She pushed herself up into a standing position. "You're going to need to find a way to keep me up all night."


	7. Chapter 7

It was about nine, when Dave appeared from his room, sheets tossed over a sleeping form in his bed-Rose was out cold. His neck was decorated with various marks, the same old bathrobe draped over his shoulders, untied. He was disheveled in every way-shades tossed on the floor, eyes bloodshot, hair a mess. "Man," he shouted in John's general direction, grinning manically, "you got some fucked-up friends."

John rolled over and off the squeaky mattress with an "oomph". He reached up and grabbd his glasses to slide them on. "W-What?' John mumbled. He groaned and stood up, reaching for a shirt. He was about to go and search for Dave and ask him what he was talking about but was overcome with the need to piss.

He wandered over to the bathroom, lifted the seat, and was welcomed with the sight of at least six condoms in the toilet. Suddenly, he didn't need to piss anymore. John rushed down to the kitchen. "You're not gonna believe what I dreamt last night."

Dave was already seated at the table, sipping coffee. "Yeah, tell me about it," he muttered, lighting a cigarette. "You would not believe the shit this chick says. And her name-Rose Lalonde, what a fucking mouthful." He was rambling now, adding in bits and pieces of the story, ignoring the look on John's face. It didn't even dawn on him that the other may have not liked the idea of him bringing in someone into the house-specifically, if it was Rose. Rose was another story entirely; he was at least aware of that.

What. Rose Lalonde? John gaped at Dave, resembling like a goldfish as he retold his story. It was odd though, listening to Dave. It was as if he had heard it before. Probably from a friend, John wasn't entirely sure.

Stumbling was heard from the stairs and a very feminine "fuck" was heard. Rose walked into the kitchen, wearing a slightly ripped dress and her hair looked as if someone put her in a wind tunnel. She smiled at John, long, mascara clumped eyelashes fluttered.

John simply stared. "What are you doing here?" Rose's smile dropped. "... What do you mean?" John rolled his eyes. "I mean, like, what the hell are you doing here?"

Rose stared back at John, lilac eyes growing cold. "Fuck you." She spun on her heel and promptly stormed out the back door.

As soon as she left, Dave broke out in a snicker, clutching his coffee cup. "The shit this chick said," he repeated, taking a sip and splattering some on his robe. "'I want to have your abortion'," he mumbled to himself with a smirk, his eyes scaling the room a moment before landing on the bar of soap directly behind John, of his own making. "Now. In order to make soap, we have to render fat."


	8. Chapter 8

Next thing John knew, he was standing in front of a barbed wire topped fence with a "DO NOT ENTER: PRIVATE PROPERTY" sign. Dave was able to get over and across with ease and only a few scratches. John, however...

"Damn it..." John muttered, feeling the barbed wire catch and claw on his skin and shirt. He wobbles on the edge and finally flips onto the inside of the fence. John would stop to care about his ruined shirt, but really, he didn't really care anymore about things like that anymore.

Eagerly, Dave flipped open one of the dozens of dumpsters in the lot, pulling out a large bag of pinkish goo. "This is a liposuction clinic," he explained to John, as he tossed it to him before pulling out another. "Paydirt. Straight from society's thighs and asses."

John wasn't sure if he should be disgusted. Still, he said nothing and simply took bags of fat under his arms, ran, and climbed the fence. Considering his stupid luck, one bag opened and the pink blob of fat splashes down onto the concrete. John groans and slides down the fence, only to slip and fall on his ass into the goo.

Dave rolled his eyes, jumping the fence picking up the other bags he had dropped, then extending his hand out to John. "Walk much?" he said, grinning at him. He glanced down at the mess below him-to think they'd be selling people's fat asses right back to them. That was the true glory behind soap making.

There they were in the kitchen, stirring giant pots of boiling fat. John took a moment to reflect on the direction his life has taken. It's been a long month, he could've called his insurance agency, looked for a new condo, new furniture. But he didn't. He glanced at Dave who had taken off his shades once they got inside. Dave never took his shades off in front of other people and made John feel a silly sense of being "special".

He couldn't help but wonder if he wears his shades with Rose.

"As the fat renders," Dave had been saying, gesturing vaguely as he stirred the pot, "the tallow floats to the surface. Remember the crap they taught you in Boy Scouts." He rolled his eyes, realizing how unlikely of a scout he would be. "This clear layer in glycerin-we'll mix it back in when we make the soap." He turned for a moment, picking up a container of white powder from the table behind him. "Lye, the crucial ingredient," he said, cracking open the bottle and adding it to the mix. "Ancient peoples found their clothes got cleaner if they washed them at a certain spot in the river. Why? Because, human sacrifices were once made on the hills above this river. Year after year, bodies burnt, rain fell. Water seeped through the wood ashes to become lye. The lye combined with the melted fat of the bodies, till a thick white soapy discharge was in the river. May I see your hand, please?" His arms were folded, staring down at John with a bit of a smirk.

John was skeptical at first, cause for all he knows Dave could be planning to have John hit himself. However, he could trust him (not really), and hesitantly held out his hand towards Dave.

Dave took his hand with an almost tender motion, licking his lips thoroughly before bending his head down to kiss it-he was oddly gentle for someone of his demeanor, almost loving.

John had a solid ten seconds of blushing and being over all flustered. And in those ten seconds, several thoughts flew through his mind at the speed of light. Rose, his sexuality, Dave, the meetings, his dad, his boss (who is also his dad), that guy with a lazy eye-

Then-of course-he took the bottle of lye, and tapped it onto John's hand.

And then everything crashed down.

John's whole body jerks and he tries to pull his hand away. Away from Dave away from the pain but it was held there, tight, and tears welled in blue eyes. He hisses through his teeth harshly and clenches them, grinding them. He looks at Dave, into bright red eyes, begging for release.

"This is a chemical burn," he said to him in an almost assuring tone, his grip on his hand as tight as he'd kept his punches. There was no way John was giving up this quickly, not at his hands. The kiss had been some kind of preparation, a sick sort of contrast he'd set up deliberately. "It will hurt more than you have ever burned, and you will have a scar."

John looked down at his hand and grit his teeth. And there it was, Dave's kiss. Swollen, glistening, burning John's flesh permanently into the shape of Dave's lips. His eyes widen and his eyes flicker from between Dave's face and the imprint Dave had made on his hand.

He took a deep, shuddering breath. Meditation. Like from the cancer patient meetings. His mind wandered into the rainforest sanctuary of detachment and meditation.

Dave hissed, looking straight into John's glassy, detached eyes. "Don't hide from the pain," he said, his voice losing its calm. "Don't shut this out." No response-he jerked his hand roughly, to get his attention. "Stop it. This is your burning hand. Look at it. It's right here." Still nothing-he delivered a slap to his face.

"I..." He whines. "I think I understand... I think..." There was no searing flesh, just a ball of white, healing light. Shining brighter and brighter. It engulfed John's mind and he was in that icy, cold cave. Rose lay on a slap of ice in the shape of a sun, naked, and in a fur coat. John stares down at the cold look in her eyes. Colder than the ice.

"No, god damn it," he replied, slapping him again, trying almost desperately to shove him back into reality. "Don't deal with it the same people those dead people did. Deal with it the way a living person does." He rolled his eyes at the other statement, still holding onto his hand. "What you're feeling here is premature enlightenment."

Suddenly, the serene rainforest catches fire. "I-I'm not..." Burning. Burning. Searing. Charring. John stared at the burn on his hand; it was bubbling and burning. He was swept from the trance to real life as the forest burned.

"Shut /up/," he hissed, slapping him again. Dave's grip got continually tighter, his hand shaking a bit with the tightness. He wasn't going to let John go, not until he was all right. The pained glance, however, had disappeared with his frustration. "Our fathers were our models for God, and if our fathers bailed, what does that tell us about God?"

"I-I..." The world was spinning now. The forest around him has turned to ash and embers. Cold now. His breath fogged around Rose's face, finding himself on top of her on the sun made of ice. She breathes back the fog which smells suspiciously like clove cigarettes. "I don't know... I-I don't know!"

He slapped him even harder, leaving a bright red mark on his cheek. He leaned in to where their foreheads were almost touching, mouth curved in a snarl. "Listen to me," he hissed, clutching him with both hands now. "You have to consider the possibility that God doesn't like you, he never wanted you. In all probability, he /hates/ you." His grip was leaving a slight bruise now, the sizzling wound the centerpiece. "This isn't the worse thing that can happen, John. We don't /need/ him."

"We..." Pale arms wrapped around his neck, raising the hair on the back of his neck. "... don't...?" Rose pulled him down into a kiss. John's hands scramble and hold her face which is colder than the ice. Cigarette smoke continued expelling out of her mouth into his, causing a coughing fit. John gasps slightly. "Rose..."

He furrowed his brows at the mention of her name, but shook it off. "Fuck damnation," he continued, locking eyes with him, jerking his hand to get him out of his fantasy. Rose. Of course it was Rose. He'd suspected it all along. "Fuck redemption. We are God's unwanted children, with no special place and no special attention, and /so be it/."

John stared into Dave's eyes, his own eyes finally lucid. The cave and the forest are gone. He shuddered and clung to Dave's hands now. "You..." Another shudder and a shaky gasp. "Y-You don't know what this feels like, Dave..." A single, solitary tear ran down his cheek.

He smirked, lifting his hand to show him a scar of his own-in the shape of a pair of lips, glossed over with permanently damaged skin. "You can cry if you want," he said, "and you can run water over it to make it worse, or-" He reached over to tap the carton of vinegar next to him-"you can use vinegar to neutralize the burn. But first you have to realize that one day, you're gonna die. Until you know that, you're useless."

He rolled his eyes, giving his hand an almost affectionate squeeze before taking the carton, popping the cap off, and pouring the vinegar onto his hand. With his arms folded, he stood above him.

John shut his eyes closed and collapsed against Dave. He cradled his hand, breathing heavily. "O-Oh..." Was all that escaped John's mouth at that moment. He clung to Dave and stood, cheek against Dave's heartbeat, before slumping to the floor to sprawl on his back.

"Congratulations. You're one step closer to hitting bottom."


End file.
